


you're the only shoe that fits (I can't imagine I'll grow out of it)

by mostlikelydefinentlymad



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bars and Pubs, Dancing, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, First Kiss, Fluff and Mush, Inspired by GIFs, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, No Mary, Not Canon Compliant, POV John Watson, Sherlock Likes to Dance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-24 01:32:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6136709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlikelydefinentlymad/pseuds/mostlikelydefinentlymad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Sherlock takes John dancing)</p><p>A pub. Sherlock has taken them to a pub with neon purple and pink lighting and tasteful music. A bright blue sign above the entrance reads "The Hoist" and John has been to many pubs but never this one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're the only shoe that fits (I can't imagine I'll grow out of it)

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by this gorgeous gif set from queer as folk http://whatloveisgifs.tumblr.com/post/140157566123

"Get your coat. We're going out," Sherlock demands, bellstaff already swishing behind him as he pulls open the door to their flat and leaves John sitting, confused.

"Do we have a case?," John asks as he tugs on his jacket and follows. It's not unusual for Sherlock to decide, spur of the moment, that a case needs their attention or that the corpse currently awaiting him at St. Barts must be examined _now_ so John thinks nothing of it.

"Not exactly," Sherlock replies as he hails a cab.

"Let me get this straight; you dragged me out of the flat on a Saturday afternoon for no reason?"

John lives for grisly crime scenes, untimely murders and most things that would make an ordinary person cringe but he's only human and in between those heart pounding, adrenaline fueled moments he likes to take a nice bubblebath or read the paper in his dressing gown. Today was supposed to be one of those days.

"Come along," Sherlock urges as he motions for John to get in the now waiting cab.

John groans but slips inside anyway. The streets pass in a blur of lights and the sky slowly darkens as afternoon fades into night and it'd be a rather pleasant outing if Sherlock would tell him where they're going and why.

"If I wasted a perfectly good Saturday just to pick up a baggie of frozen toes, Sherlock...," he warns.

Still, he can't deny the surge of excitement at the combination of mystery and Sherlock's thigh pressed against his own in the cab. He'd love nothing more than to reach over and test the muscles, to squeeze and release - to follow up with a lousy explanation laced with medical jargon. Instead he curls his hands into fists and keeps them in his lap.

Sherlock, the madman who is going to be the death of John, is as calm as a person can be. His face reveals nothing as he stares straight ahead and John wants to shake him until he rambles on about experiments and how Mrs. Hudson keeps touching his things and how he's certain she let herself into the flat when they were sleeping and dusted the shelves. They've had that conversation before with John telling him that it's an utterly ridiculous notion as she has a bad hip and the stairs are painful for her but Sherlock insists because 'My stack of magazines is leaning to the right and the pillow on the sofa has been fluffed, since neither of us are the housekeeping type it had to have been her. Oh but when, you ask? Last week when we left for Bristol to investigate that completely useless case. She has to be stopped, John.'

Per usual John had managed to talk him down with a rousing game of Cluedo that left them both angerly muttering at one another about fictional crime scenes and how using a candleabra wasn't the best option; that a letter cutter would've been more useful; what personal library _doesn't_ have one?

And then Mrs. Hudson had popped in to see what the racket was and Sherlock had jabbed a finger in her direction and then to the magazines, speaking quickly as she shook her head at them and insisted that she'd did no such thing.

Such was life in 221B.

"Is this how it's going to be then? Hmm? You could be taking me to a landfill to dig for evidence for all I know."

"Don't be absurd, John. You'd never find it there and even so it'd be tainted beyond recognition and therefore would be useless."

Sherlock makes John's life so hard.

"Not a landfill then. A cemetery, we're going to excavate some poor sap because he might hold the answer to a cold case from the early 1900s."

Sherlock smiles at that and well at least John made him happy. Perhaps that will make up for whatever shady area they're about to find themselves in.

"You'll like it," Sherlock insists.

"You know I don't like it when you don't tell me where we're going. I've had my fill of that with Mycroft."

Sherlock waves his hand dismissively - "Mycroft doesn't count."

"He does when he's whisking me away when I'm trying to do something important."

"A pastry, John. You were buying a pastry."

John groans - "I had a date."

Sherlock gets that look on his face that says 'We both know better than that' and smirks - "You have a sweet tooth, John. It's the reason that you have two cavities."

John sputters - "What? Sherlock. Did you get a copy of my dental records?"

"Didn't have to."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that your sugar intake combined with your poor dental habits is a breeding ground for cavities and gum disease."

Well.

He sure knows how to flatter a guy.

"Thank you so much for your concern," John mutters.

He's not mad, not really. It's endearing in an odd sort of way; it's Sherlock's idea of showing affection or at least that's what John tells himself.

Sherlock nods then clasps his hands in his lap as he does when he's uncomfortable.

"I bought a bearclaw," John confesses.

Yes he'd been on a date and it had lasted a grand total of five minutes before she'd made an excuse to leave and it had taken him exactly three to figure out that she'd left because he'd prattled on about his utter arse of a flatmate and how he used up all of the hot water and stole John's bath bombs for experiments. He wasn't about to trudge back out into the cold rain so he'd remained seated and ordered another pastry.

"Mmm I gathered that."

"Two," John adds.

"And a cup of tea, straight. No sugar or cream," Sherlock finishes.

It should be unnerving how much Sherlock can read him by now but instead it's charming that he takes the time to note mundane happenings in John's life.

"Where are we going, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's face gives away no emotion as he shakes his head no - "You'll find out when we get there."

*****

A pub. Sherlock has taken them to a pub with neon purple and pink lighting and tasteful music. A bright blue sign above the entrance read "The Hoist" and John has been to many pubs but never this one.

A muscular man with a bald head and dimples on his cheeks that looked out of place ushers them inside and Sherlock is all smiles.

"Sherlock, why are we here?," John questions - voice straining over the music.

"Two vodka and tonics please," Sherlock says to the barman who winks at John.

"What was that all about? He...winked at me," John asks as soon as they're out of ear range with drinks in hand.

Sherlock shrugs - "He's being friendly, I suppose."

They slide into a booth in the far back where the music isn't ear splittingly loud and it's then that John notices the couples currently on the dance floor.

Men.

Dancing with men.

A gay pub, they're in a gay pub but why?

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock takes a quick gulp of his drink and grimaces. "What?"

"Sherlock those are men."

"If you have a point then get to it."

John huffs - "This is a pub for homosexuals. What are we doing here?"

"So I've noticed."

A madman, indeed.

"Are we supposed to meet a client here?"

Sherlock smirks and leans back against the booth, long legs stretched in front of him. "No."

Okay.

Well.

John recalls the first time they'd staked out a suspect and how he'd needled Sherlock about his sexual preferences. That was years ago and he hadn't brought it up since seeing as it was pointless. Sherlock had point blank told him that his work came first and that was that. Until Irene of course and John still hadn't moved past that.

"Oh hello gorgeous, wanna dance?," a man of about John's average stature with plaid shirt and dark jeans asks as he brushes a finger along Sherlock's shoulder through his coat.

John freezes.

"I'm flattered but as you can see I'm taken."

What.

"You're a lucky chap," he says to John before sauntering away.

So it was going to be like that, was it? He'd be Sherlock's little scape goat? No.

"Go on now, don't let me hold you back. Find someone to chat up," John mutters, bitterly.

Sherlock hesitates and John decides that he can't watch as another man puts his hands on Sherlock so he stands and meanders toward the bar.

"Hey!"

He turns to find Sherlock removing his bellstaff and holding out a hand. "What if I'd rather chat you up?"

Maybe it's the alcohol, maybe it's the music, maybe it's the way Sherlock is looking at him like he's something to be desired - regardless John stands there grinning like an idiot.

"Oh....okay, sure, yeah."

Sherlock takes long strides and pushes past sweaty bodies until he reaches John. "Would you like to dance?"

This isn't Sherlock's scene, not for dancing, John is sure of it but he takes Sherlock's hand anyway.

The music plays a sultry tune as Sherlock wraps both arms around John's shoulder and drags him close.

This is happening and if it wasn't for the heavy warm sensation of Sherlock's expensive dress shirt (having removed his suit jacket alongside his bellstaff) brushing up against the bare skin at the nape of John's neck he'd assume it was a dream and would wake alone and sticky in his own bed.

The music belts out lyrics that couldn't be more perfect for them if they tried and John can't wipe the grin off of his face as he trails his hand down Sherlock's spine.

 _I'll do such things to ease your pain_  
_Free your mind, and you won't feel ashamed_  
_Shucks, for me there is no other_  
_You're the only shoe that fits_  
_I can't imagine I'll grow out of it_

Sherlock had taken them to a place where they could freely touch one another, could dance without snide looks because progress is slow when it comes to same sex relationships and there will always be at least one surly person to ruin the moment. He's not good with words so he'd decided to show John in the best way he knew how; dance. They'd danced before, with the curtains drawn and door locked in their flat and had stood on the cusp of something electrifying only to have a jilted lover knocking on their door and pleading for them to take her case. Mrs. Hudson had shaken her head and quietly apologized, explained that the young woman refused to leave and said it was an urgent matter.

The moment had passed, never to be mentioned again.

Here they wouldn't get interrupted.

"Are you surprised?," Sherlock murmured, forehead pressed to John's as they swayed.

"You could say that," John replied with a grin.

The music purred sensually as Sherlock brushed his nose against John's, hesitated near his lips.

 _Come, let me in, mm_  
_I could do it forever and ever and ever and ever_  
_Give me an hour to kiss you_  
_Walk through Heaven's door I'm sure_  
_We don't need no doctor to feel much better_

"Is that a good thing or...we can leave if you're not-," Sherlock begins as he fully registers John's words and tries to pull back.

"Sherlock."

"What?"

"Come'ere and I'll show you."

John can't believe that this is his life; that his idea of romance is a packed pub with purple lights and an overdressed madman who actually wants to touch him, to hold him. Honestly he prefers this over rose petals and whatever other cheesy ideas romantic flicks could ever dream up. As with all aspects of his life he swims against the hide and shuns the norm.

Sherlock drapes his arms around John's neck once more and bites his lip nervously.

It thrills John that he's the only one who gets to see this side of Sherlock; the nervous softer side who shows love in odd ways and gracefully steps back when he thinks John isn't interested.

John Watson has been waiting for what feels like half of his life for this moment; for the right person who fits him like a dark and misshapen puzzle piece and it's nearly overwhelming.

He takes Sherlock's hand in his own and softly brushes his fingers over pale knuckles then presses a tiny kiss to each one while his eyes are still locked on Sherlock's. He notes the hitch in his breathing, the hard swallow as Sherlock realizes where he's going with this.

"I'm going to kiss you if you don't stop me," John whispers.

And that's all the encouragement Sherlock needs. He bends toward John and brushes their lips together before pulling back far enough to lean his forehead against John's.

"Is that okay?," Sherlock asks.

John can't help but laugh - it's so far from okay. It's incredible and dizzying. Instead of answering he curls a hand around the nape of Sherlock's neck and drags him back down, nips at his bottom lip which causes Sherlock's lips to part with a soft _"Oh."_

He tilts his head and feels rather than hears Sherlock make a throaty noise against his lips.

At the first touch of his tongue against Sherlock's John moans and he can't get close enough, he clutches desperately at Sherlock's shirt. It'll be wrinkled and probably costs more than John's entire wardrobe but he can't be bothered with worrying about that right now. At this moment everything is Sherlock, the music becomes a slight hum in the background and John gets lost in the kiss. It's only when hands are splayed over his hipbones and holding them hard enough to bruise that he remembers where they are and that they're essentially making out on the dance floor and not doing much dancing.

"We should...uh...home," he murmurs and presses a kiss to the shell of Sherlock's ear.

"No cases," Sherlock replies as he traces the curve of John's jawline.

"Mmm no cases, we'll put the doorbell in the freezer," John suggests; laughing against the junction of Sherlock's neck and shoulder.

Sherlock grins widely and his eyes light up like the stars (that he insists he knows nearly nothing about) - "Lets go home, John."

*****

"Oh wonderful, you're back! Sherlock could you be a dear and-," Mrs. Hudson begins as they stumble through the door; more drunk on love than anything else.

"No time for that, Hudders. John has had too much to drink and he needs my bed. I mean, the bed. He's drunk. No cases," Sherlock rambles as he curls an arm around John's waist and John sways slightly; sells the lie.

"Honestly, you boys and your drinking habits. Should I put on a pot of coffee and maybe a fry up?"

"No!," they reply in unison.

She stares back at them, confused. "Well you know where to find me if you change your mind."

"Thank you but I doubt we will," Sherlock replies and John gives him a good pinch for that.

"But if we do we'll let you know," Sherlock adds with a smile.

Mrs. Hudson gives them a warm smile as if she knows more than she lets on. Perhaps it's the smell of alcohol and clean sweat on their clothes or the desperate way they're clinging to one another, either way she apparently decides to keep it to herself.

"I won't let a single soul up," she promises.

"Thank you," John says, politely.

She nods and smiles once more before walking away, softly humming to herself.

They collapse into giggles the minute she's gone and barely make it up the stairs as neither want to let go of the other.

*****

They spend hours stretched out on Sherlock's bed together exchanging sweet kisses that give way to heated kisses and whispered confessions in the soft glow of lamplight. They're going to do this proper and take their time rather than rush things and possibly mess up a beautiful thing. They'll break the news to Molly and Greg, Mycroft and NSY would likely find out via Greg but for now there's only the two of them and a locked door. 

John Watson decides that perhaps surprises aren't bad after all (as long as they don't involve 3am trips to pick up a bag of toes from shady people).

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing, rights belong to the BBC/Mark Gatiss/Steven Moffat/Sue.
> 
> The pub http://london.gaycities.com/bars/1994-the-hoist 
> 
> title is from "damn I wish I was your lover" by sophie b. hawkins


End file.
